Rewind
by SunilaMoon
Summary: -title subject to change- After a harsh turn of events, Jizabels emotional trauma leaves Cassian to deal with a much younger, purer side of the doctor, a side previously thought to have been long gone... But now, how will things ever return to normal?


I swallowed, pushing the door open and peering into the dark room, my eyes fixed on the sleeping figure in my bed.

_Our bed._

I'm tired. So incredibly tired, yet I cannot bring myself to crawl off to another room and pull some makeshift bed together. Even when they want to fall closed on me, I can't tear my eyes away from him, and I can't stop questioning how this could happen.

It all began at eight o'clock last night. Or, to really start at the beginning of this story, it began on a windy afternoon down a dusty road. It began with one man in his middle ages, possibly with a family at home, on a carriage toting nothing more then common supplies, and an occupied casket.

It began with my knife through this mans back, a terrified horse, and a casket sliding onto the dirt road, pried open from the inside by slender, cold fingers.

It all began with the cart I was supposed to intercept, and the not-so-dead man I was supposed to retrieve... A task which this not-so-dead man had almost fulfilled on his own, afterall, had I not intercepted he would have merely slid out of the casket, off the back of the cart, and onto the road to continue a tedious journey back to London.

But I _was_ there, and I _did_ see him as he stood up, stretched, and brushed off his suit, that highly disgruntled expression never leaving his face. Well, I would have worn a similar expression, had I been tossed inside a coffin and shipped to god only knows where. It was that day when I walked up to the driver, drawing my knife from his back, then turned slowly back to this "doctor", a scar on his face and an odd burn on his hand, that I wondered... Just what kind of man had I been assigned to work under.

And even now I am unsure the answer to this question, for though it has been over two years since that day, I would continue to ask it, day after day. He went from being an odd man, to a cruel man, to a twisted man. And then, he became a child in these eyes. A poor, lost, confused boy.

It was shortly after he saved _my_ life, an action I could have never predicted, that we both fled Delilah... Our first days hiding out in London, and our next leaving the city of fog completely. Could I say he was a good man? I can't be sure, but neither am I. He is a better man then I have been in many years, perhaps I wanted to help him stay that way. Even then we were never pursued. Perhaps the Cardmasters needs for the kid had simply run dry, or perhaps this past year has been the calm before the storm. Whether dead or alive, we were both as unwanted as ever. In this case it was almost a joyous revelation, Although Jizabel did not take such a realization so well to begin with.

And so, it all began at eight o'clock last night.... Or perhaps it all began at eight o'clock _yesterday morning_, as I poured a saucer of milk and set it outside for one of the stray cats that Jizabel had taken a fancy too, before returning inside to pour a cup of coffee and walk back upstairs to the bedroom. In this case it was not to rouse Jizabel from his sleep, but to clean things up... Since we began staying in this house, we had taken full advantage of the peace and privacy, often lending to a less than tidy environment the next morning.

...

Unless I am thinking of another day, I tripped over Jizabels trousers and almost fell down the stairs just that morning. So, after setting the warm cup in my hands down on the nightstand, I brushed the discarded clothing, shoes and.... undergarments into a corner... It was around then that I heard a grunt from under the sheets, and I looked up just in time to watch Jizabel slip out of bed.

That morning really had nothing to do with the events tonight, but I simply can't ignore it, or stop wondering if it _did_ have any relevance. It's too hard to ignore a moment so ordinary that seemed like so long ago. It won't stop its damned repetition in my mind. Too many nightmares tell me he won't be himself again, too many dreams say that he's better off in his head.

The nightmares fight back. They tell me that his mind is too dangerous for anyone to feel safe in...

That morning was the last time I had kissed him, and the night before had been our last...

I drag myself back from intoxicating memories to face reality. I slide the door shut, not wanting to disturb the one sleeping inside as I turn and descend the stairs. In the small parlor I stumble to the table, and pour a glass of brandy, before falling back into the chair.

Unable to fight back my tears and my frustrations any longer.

It was at eight o'clock last night that I discovered his latest filthy secret, that he broke down infront of me, shouting things at me reminiscent of the days in Delilah, the days when he hated me, hated the world.

No, it would seem he still hates the world. He despises everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone-

Only the agonizing sound of the glass shattering can pull me from these thoughts, as I look down to see blood dripping from my fingers and broken shards of glass on the floor, alcohol dripping over the boards. That image, so close to what I saw last night, it stings, it...

I hate what he does, yet I hate myself for hating what he does. Who could I not hate such things? ….Yet If it weren't for the things I did, if it were not for _that hate_, he would be here... He would be safe.

But all I could do was wait after our fight. Just wait and hope he would return soon, another part of me screaming to just walk out that door and find him. But I was too weak, too slow, _pathetic_...

I should not have even let him leave my sight, I should never let him leave my sight... Even now, even now I should be up there, even if he's just...

I did not think.

He left here last night, at half past eight. I left at a quarter past nine. I found him sometime between then, and ten o'clock.

Just off of the road. I thought I had seen blood... I wanted to keep walking, to keep moving forward, I didn't want to think about that possibility, but the truth cried out. I knew I had to stop, to wander off the road into the woods. I cried. It was blood, the moonlight hauntingly reflecting in several pools of the thick red liquid.

It all began at ten o'clock last night, as I carried my Jizabel back to this house, careful of wounds which, at the time, I could not tell were inflicted by himself or another. I carried him back, the shallow breaths he took like some grim timer, counting down the minutes it took me to return. The minutes that felt like hours. I could barely feel those breaths against my skin, the slick feel of the blood between my fingers overwhelming my senses. I can hardly remember the time I took cleaning him up, Only how hard it was for me not to go to the village up the road for help. How hard it was to weigh the risks and make a choice.

But more precisely, I remember all too clearly that around midnight he stirred, his eyes blinking slowly before he looked at me like some scared animal, the fright melting into confusion as he asked me where we were. Who I was.

Where his _father_ was.

If I was a friend of his _father_.

I stand, my knees shaking as I reach for a new glass, pour, and take a drink.

Now here I am at four in the mourning, that is, if the clock is right, something tells me I did not wind it at the time I normally do.

I can't think about him now, that... child, who tells me that he is only ten years of age... He is not a stranger to me. I know him, but only as an acquaintance. A sweet, and at this moment, sleeping, little boy.

I can't not think of him. He is my responsibility, in more ways then one....

I down another glass. Another.

This is a nightmare. A nightmare.

I told him lies. I told him what he wanted to hear, and everything I tell him matches perfectly with what _he_ tells me. How he got here, how he came to be with me... How the last thing he remembered was falling asleep outside, at his old home...

Despite everything he makes sense of the situation, no matter how absurd it seems... because... he doesn't want to leave this fantasy. He believes every absurd thing I tell him because he _wants_ to believe they are true.

Another.

He's withdrawn to a happier time, a more peaceful state of being, the last time in his life he was happy... Wasn't he happy this past year with me? Wasn't he safe? ...Jizabel, weren't you safe?

Who did this to you? ..._What_ did they do to you?

….Ano...ther......

And still, as I tried to do the moment I met that twisted doctor, I try to unravel just what sort of person he is. I try to unravel how any of this came to pass. They're all just pieces... pieces in some sick puzzle that makes me wonder if The Cardmaster still holds our fates in his hand...

_Jizabel._

_----_

**This fic... it's like a serious crack fic. I swear to god. This plot bunny's been in my head forever. Bad things happen to Jizabel and Cassian, Jizabel can't cope, memories are repressed... Err.... 17 years are repressed, I should say. That's right. You'll be dealing with a mentally ten yearold Jizabel for the majority of this fic. Well, aren't you about ready to stop reading.**

**I didn't want this to be some "Ohh, character A hits his head on a rock and reverts to childhood, and character B has to deal with it" nah, there'll be a deeper plot in it.....sort of. But be warned, as I stated... This is like a serious crack fic. There will be lots of weirdness in general ahead. Bear with my insanity.**

**Also, the rest of the fic will reveal chapter by chapter what happened. What secrets Jizabel has been keeping, how Cassian reacted, how Jizabel reacted, how upset and angsty all this made Cassian, what happened to Jizabel, etc.**

**...OH GOD SOMEONE SHOOT ME FOR WRITING THIS WEIRDNESS. *tosses a gun to Sorryll***

**DO IT. For the future of fanfiction, you must put a stop to this madness. Dx**


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